A Message in Blood #2
Dante’s men remained stationed discreetly near the entrance all day, vigilantly scanning the SoHo sidewalks beyond the glass. Customers pretended not to notice them, but it was impossible not to.
“Are they strictly necessary?” Chloe asked me when a browser had taken one step inside then hurried out again after noticing their bulging jackets and serious faces. “They’re not good for business.”
“Can’t be helped,” I told her. Dante had been absolutely firm on that. The guards stayed or I didn’t go to work. “With the cartel interest, we have to be vigilant.”
She darted a nervous glance at them. “Well, let’s hope you can get to the bottom of this little problem before the gallery goes bankrupt and you can’t pay me anymore.”
I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Not really. She didn’t know how close she was to the truth.
Before I could answer, Vincent appeared in the doorway of his office looking unusually pale.
“Evelyn.”
Something in his voice made me stiffen. “What is it?”
“Can you come in here for a second?”
I shot Chloe a worried look, then followed him down the hallway toward the accounting office. He shut the door quietly behind us and turned his monitor slightly so I could see the screen.
Breaking news filled the page.
POLICE INVESTIGATE DOUBLE HOMICIDE IN TRIBECA
Beneath the headline was shaky phone footage of flashing NYPD lights and crime-scene tape sealing off a narrow Manhattan side street. Detectives moved between black SUVs while reporters crowded the barricades.
My pulse stumbled.
“What happened?” I whispered.
Vincent rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Two businessmen were found executed in an alley behind a private members club about forty minutes ago.”
The article scrolled downward, revealing blurred images of two covered bodies being wheeled toward ambulances.
A horrible chill crept over my skin.
“Businessmen?” I echoed faintly.
Vincent gave me a grim look. “That’s what the press is calling them.” He lowered his voice. “But those guys are Colombian.”
I stared at him.
“How can you be sure?”
“I recognize one of them from an auction I attended last week.” He tapped the screen. “That’s Ricardo Sánchez.” My pulse ticked up a notch. The fake bidder. Or rather, the man whose identity the Marcellis had stolen for the bidding war.
“Apparently the shooters used 5.45 rounds,” Vincent said quietly.
I frowned. “Meaning?”
He gave me a grim look. “That’s typically Russian ammunition.”
A cold chill crept over me. Malakov. Or at least that’s what everyone was supposed to think.
“This is bad,” Vincent muttered, pacing behind his desk. I’d never seen him so affected before. Usually, he was the epitome of cool. “Very bad. If the Bratva are involved… the Colombians must have done something to piss them off.”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep acting surprised. “You think this is connected to my gallery?”
“I think,” Vincent said carefully, “that Malakov is sending them a message. A message written in blood.”
I gulped.
A knock sounded sharply at the office door and we both jumped. Vincent opened it to reveal Dante standing there in a dark charcoal coat, broad shoulders filling the doorway. He looked like a hot, but grouchy, avenging angel.
His silver gaze found mine. Assessing. Checking me over.
“You ready?” he asked.
I blinked, confused. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up.”
Vincent nodded at Dante before returning to his desk. Dante focus snapped to the computer screen. I saw him take in the article before his eyes met mine. I knew then that this was his doing. Him and his family’s.
“What’s that?” he said to Vincent, as calmly as if he was asking what was on the menu.
“Breaking news.” Vincent glanced up at him. “Looks like the Russians took a hit out on the Colombians.”
Dante arched a brow. “We know them?”
“That’s the Colombian intermediary, Ricardo Sánchez,” I told him, biting my lip.
“How do you know it was the Russians?” His gaze swung back to Vincent. Curious. Concerned. Not a flicker of remorse.
“A couple of reporters mentioned the bullet casings. Don’t know how they knew. Cops don’t usually hand out that kind of information.” Vincent shrugged, but the deep lines creasing his forehead told me he was anxious.
He was right about that. The information on the bullets had been leaked by Marco’s police source.
“Chloe’s locking up.” Dante stepped aside so I could pass. “Max is waiting.”
“I’ll be right there,” I told him. “I’ve just got to get my coat and purse.”
He nodded and went to wait in the main gallery. I fetched my things from my office, an uneasy feeling settling over me. Up until now, it had all been talk. Now two men were dead.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
By the time we stepped onto the sidewalk outside, dusk had fallen over SoHo. Rain slicked the pavement beneath the streetlights while traffic hissed in the distance. Dante’s hand settled against the small of my back as he guided me toward the waiting SUV.
“You okay?” he murmured quietly.
I gave a tight nod, still trying to reconcile the man beside me with the brutal headline burned into my mind.
Two men dead.
A war escalating exactly the way Valentina intended.
And somehow, impossibly, the only place I felt remotely safe anymore was beside the monster helping orchestrate it.